Those Wicked Charms
by Gray Doll
Summary: He shall break her, crush that sparkling spirit of hers, and when she's nothing but ashes and rust, he'll give her a new life and make her strong again. *trigger warning for abuse*


**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Mentalist's characters. If I did, bad things would happen.

**Warnings:** This is definitely dark - or at least it gets progressively darker. Don't let the first few paragraphs fool you. It's not light and fluffy, and it's certainly not for children. There's abuse and manipulation. Consider yourself warned.

**Notes: **I was re-watching some of season 5's episodes lately, and I couldn't help but like Lorelei a bit. I think she was a very interesting character, and it's a pity she was killed off so soon and wasn't given much background and character exploration... So I decided to write something about her. However, things got out of hand when I sat in front of a blank Word page, and this happened. Also, I've thrown one or two hints about a certain canon character in there, whom I do not refer to by name... Cookies for you if you find out who they are! *****edit: cookie goes to Anonymous!*****

* * *

**Those Wicked Charms**

"Please don't believe when I say it's hard to breathe... Save me, even as you break me." - Seether, Roses

* * *

She is just another desperate young woman leaning against an alleyway's filthy wall when he finds her. Her eyes are half-closed, her head resting heavily on the cold bricks as she undoubtedly waits for the next drunken man to come and pull her into the farthest corner of the backstreet.

He takes a moment to assess her, hidden in the shadows where neither she nor her unfortunate co-workers can see him. There's no doubt she's good-looking, though nothing exceptional – he's met his fair share of pretty women, and he can think of a few that are leaps and bounds ahead of her in that department. But what does draw his attention to her isn't her appearance, it's the way she holds herself.

Her expression is strained with fatigue, as expected. He can't imagine her life is an easy one. But unlike the few other girls that share the dark alley with her, there is something about this certain woman, a sort of determination that he can't help but wonder where it stems from. His lip curls slightly in disgust when he thinks that perhaps she is so delusional as to believe that one day, she will have accumulated enough money to leave this life behind and start anew. There is no point in even considering her if she is so naïve.

He knows a person who has nothing left when he sees them, though, and this one doesn't seem anywhere near willing to give up. No, there is something she still holds onto, with the desperation of a man fighting for his every breath in the middle of a tempest.

There is fire in her, even though it's so small it's almost burned out.

He smiles to himself, endless possibilities whirling in his head. He could try with this one. Of course, he knows he will succeed. In a way, it will be yet another conquest, and a greatly beneficial one.

He feels the women's eyes on him as he makes his presence known and walks slowly across the dingy alley. Each of them both dreads and hopes that he'll pick them up, their weariness and ugly knowledge of their profession only overrun by their overwhelming need for money. Their expressions turn from circumspect to either relieved or angry when he passes them by, his eyes always on the dark-haired woman leaning against the wall, now only a few feet away from him.

He clears his throat when he reaches her side, and watches with short amusement as her eyes snap open, wide with surprise before realization flashes across them. If her momentary wonder is anything to go by, she's probably quite new to this.

All the better.

He smiles at her and she smiles back – or at least she tries to. Swallowing down a lump in her throat, she puts on a brave face and leans towards him, with a poorly constructed smirk that should have been seductive but looks rather sordid.

He'll have to teach her facial expressions too, then.

It all gets even more interesting when she gasps at the sight of his car before tentatively following him into the backseat. He can tell she's not used to such treatment by other men, who most likely don't bother with anything more than a quick fuck against a dirty wall.

He smiles to himself at her bewildered expression when he softly kisses her. Confusion is evident in her every move, and in the end she simply closes her eyes and lets him take the lead, unsure how to proceed with this man who isn't at all intoxicated and rough.

They spend the remainder of the night in the backseat of his car, her breathless moans and surprised little cries breaking through the quiet. By the end she's flushed and wide-eyed, and he has already formulated an impeccable plan to win her ultimate trust and devotion. He knows it will take time, because for all her amazement at his gentleness, she is still world-weary and astute, and there is that undeniable _fire_ still simmering underneath the despair.

He will have to douse it completely before giving her a new one, one that will burn red and bright and will make her his, completely and irrevocably.

He pays her generously, and she can't help the grin that forms on her lips as she steps out of the car and onto the hard concrete. She even thanks him, the hopeless little girl, and her heart skips a beat when he gives her a tender kiss goodbye.

Before she turns around and disappears into the shadows once more, she tells him that it's a shame there aren't more men like him in the world. Her intent is to sound humorous, but he silently acknowledges her words – it truly _is_ a shame.

* * *

He visits her again after two nights, and is mildly surprised to see her chatting briskly with one of the women he'd seen there that first night. Her interlocutor looks older, well into her thirties, and undoubtedly wiser. When he approaches the two women, the older one gives him a calculating look, her eyes wandering from the expensive-looking watch on his wrist to his sober face, narrowing suspiciously as she surveys him.

"And what does a man like you think he's doing in a place like this?"

It takes him only a second to figure that this unexpected hitch can be turned into an asset. He averts his gaze from the offending person to the dark-haired girl (how much easier will it be to convince her of his pure intentions if she thinks she has his undivided attention), and smiles before answering. "I came back for you," he says, and the slight upward curve of her lips doesn't go unnoticed.

"Oh... I... I'm glad to see you again," she says, and the older woman's eyebrows shoot up incredulously.

It's not long before the two find themselves in his car for the second time, but when she attempts to wrap her arms around him he stops her, and tells her with a smirk that he has booked them a hotel room not far from here. She blinks, confusion written all over her features yet again, but of course she doesn't protest.

She leaves the hotel at the first crack of dawn, with a smile on her face and her pockets full, though she initially tried to refuse his bounteous tip. He suggests driving her home, knowing that she will politely decline his offer and try to hide her blush – caused either by his unexpected concern for her or the fact that she isn't exactly proud of wherever it is that she lives in.

It becomes routine after a while. Every other day he stops by that forlorn backstreet, his disgust at the awful environment and its less than agreeable dwellers carefully disguised as gracious interest for her, and her alone. The women she calls her friends slowly get used to his frequent calls, some of them even sharing conspiratorial little winks every time he shows up. She loosens up bit by bit, a bright grin appearing on her face whenevr she spots him among the alley's shadows. Her initial confusion gives way to delight at this unexpected turn of events, and she allows herself a small amount of happiness for the first time in what he's sure has been several long months.

He takes only a step at a time – slowly she starts talking, sharing with him not only playful jokes and lustful words but her thoughts, her hopes and her dreams, and he has her profiled in less time than he thought he would.

He finds out that her name is Lorelei, and he's being honest when he tells her it's a beautiful name. He's not when he tells her that it suits her. She blushes prettily at his compliment and reminisces about her mother and how she used to love mythology. But then her eyes darken as she bitterly remarks that her mother loved mythology more than she loved her own daughters.

Just like that, the last piece of the puzzle falls perfectly into place, the source of her fire finally revealed. He gives her wine and lavishes her with kisses, it's so easy to keep her talking all night long. She only remembers bits and pieces from their exchange in the morning, the overwhelming sense of satisfaction clouding any regrets she might have had.

* * *

His thoughts are with her, even as he approaches the nearly unconscious Miranda with long, purposeful strides.

He has set a goal – make her _his_ – and he will achieve it. He will own her entirely when everything is done, for he will be her savior, her protector, her God.

Her wicked, callous God.

She will owe him everything, and he will owe her nothing. He'll make sure she knows that. He's already so much more to her than anyone else has ever been – save, of course, for her beloved sister, who lies crumpled and bleeding at his feet, the perfect tool for his ultimate ownership of racy, defiant little Lorelei.

He shall break her, crush that sparkling spirit of hers, and when she's nothing but ashes and rust, he'll give her a new life and make her strong again.

His acolytes (no, his _creations_) can never be weak, after all.

She's a survivor and determined, but she's still only a girl, frightened and shattered even if she tries to hide it. She's a girl, and he'll make her a woman. She's weak, and he'll make her strong. He'll make her a true Lorelei, a charming siren with an even more charming voice, but she will sing only for him.

She will be strong again, but only because he will not tolerate having created anything less than perfect.

* * *

It comes as no surprise when a loud, urgent knock on his door rouses him from his leisure. The sound of knuckles against wood is quickly replaced by the doorbell's melodic ringing, and he grits his teeth as he climbs down the flight of stairs and heads for the door, the obvious distress of whoever it is that has decided to visit him in the dead of the night irritating to say the least.

Only, he knows exactly who it is, and appearing as disgruntled as he feels in front of her now will simply ruin everything he's worked so hard for in the past months.

She's soaked to the bone, having run to his house through the merciless rain that has been pouring for days now. Her dark hair is sticking to her face and she's trembling, her eyes glistening orbs of anguish and despair. She looks so impossibly frail, even more so than when he'd first met her, and he would have snapped at her for being so piteously weak, if it weren't for the pressing urge to carry on with his plan and give her what she so desperately needs.

He puts an arm around her and pulls her close to him, trying to ignore the wetness of her clothes and the stench of her hair as he cradles her and pretends to be shocked, asking her what has possibly happened that could put her in this state.

She buries her face in his chest and she weeps, her thin body wrecked by sobs while he holds her, in the dim light of his hallway, whispering soothing words until she's calmed down and is pulling back ever so slightly.

She only starts explaining when she's safely tucked against him on the couch with a warm duvet and his arms around her, the only sound besides her trembling voice being the crackle of the scarlet flames in the fireplace. He's given her a strong sedative and a glass full of bourbon, and he nods gravely as she tells him about her sister's death, her expression growing number with each passing second.

When she finally falls asleep, he lifts her up and carries her to his bedroom, for he knows how she'll appreciate the gesture come morning (a small ray of light through the darkness that has swallowed her whole).

He watches her sleep for several long minutes, her chest rising and falling peacefully. She can't be dreaming, for if she was, she would be having nightmares for sure. And he'd pull her to him when she'd wake up screaming, and he'd quiesce her with soft words and gentle caresses until she drifted off again. Always her savior.

He smirks as he pulls the covers up around her in a mockery of tenderness. Perhaps one day, when she will have served her purpose and she'll no longer be useful, he'll be the one to wake her up, in the way that only he can.

But for now, she sleeps the night away, looking every bit like the beautiful doll she might have been in another life. In this life, she's cracked and torn at the seams, but she's still pretty.

And she can still be put back together. It will only take a skillful hand to do so.

* * *

Nearly a year has passed, and now the reality of her sister's tragic death is all but a distant memory to Lorelei. He's kept her safe and sheltered for so long she's almost forgotten how it is to have a life outside the walls she sees every day. He's watched her reach out for and then turn her back to him, alternating between her need for support and the hopelessness of her situation that prompts her to turn to herself, not caring about the ruins she knows she'll find there.

But she's grown, and she's learned. He's given her everything – compassion, patronage, friendship, understanding, and he's taught her how to cope with the recent tragedies in her life. Slowly but steadily, he molds her into the perfect marionette, obedient and dependent but also _strong_, because that's what he wants her to be, that's what he deserves to accomplish.

He drains her of all emotion and preserves only a tiny sliver, that will be reserved for him and him alone. To the world, she will be a dauntless, potent woman void of petty sentiments. But for him, she is and always will be his doll, trusting and loving, but never weak.

She offers him adoration and respect, and something else that is slowly burgeoning within her – that emotion he has sworn he'll never allow himself to feel (he broke his oath once, but he'll never repeat such a horrendous mistake, no matter how perfectly right it had felt, no matter how perfectly right it might still feel if he would only allow it).

It is both laughable and satisfying, that his beautiful doll thinks she loves him. Such an emotion can be one's downfall, and he truly doesn't want Lorelei to be weak. But then, it's something _he_ made her feel, something that took life in her thoughts and in the remnants of her soul because of his masterful manipulations.

So perhaps he can revel in it, instead of trying to extinguish it.

He makes the right choice, for when he finally reveals his true identity to her, it is that powerful, deplorable emotion that keeps her from running away. It is her newfound love for him that compels her to stay, that makes her embrace the darker aspects of him and convince herself that he is not the monster everyone says he is.

He has arranged her coming of self, as definitively as if he'd written the history of her entire life before him. He could not have made her better if she had been his lovely Eve... though as she would have been formed from his own rib, and it would be disgraceful to have him reduced to the character of Adam, he should perhaps look for a more suitable analogy.

She is his now, mind, body and heart, his to do with as he pleases.

He can continue with this charade, this travesty of affection and genuine feelings for her, and keep amusing himself with her gullibility and utmost trust.

Or he can give her hell instead. She's come a long way, and he knows she'll take it.

* * *

One day, she finally gives him a reason to test the waters.

Admittedly, he's grown rather tired of playing nice. It's been way too long, and aside from the fact that his affectionate facade is beginning to both bore and wear him out, she's apparently become too comfortable, forgetting both their places in what she likes to call their relationship.

He's given her a simple job to do, far easier than anything he'd ever task one of his longtime followers with. He is actually caught by surprise when she refuses to obey, and it becomes patent then that she is confusing the word strong with the word insubordinate.

That will not do.

He repeats the order, this time as if speaking to a particularly stubborn child, but Lorelei sets her jaw defiantly and tells him no. "Why should I?" She asks.

The back of his hand hits her face with a resonating smack, and time seems to stop for her as she raises her hand to her stinging cheek, her eyes wide and glistening.

He searches those eyes for any signs of hurt, confusion or sense of betrayal, knowing that if he finds any they'll have to start from the beginning. If he's been padding correctly, then she'll have no one to blame for this but herself, and feeling betrayed will be the last thing on her mind.

He almost sighs with relief when she blinks back tears, the expression on her face not wounded, but one of guilt.

His fingers grip her jaw and force her face upwards, his eyes boring into hers. "You will do it, because I said so," he says firmly, and she nods, her bottom lip quivering. "And stop sniveling like an idiot."

She barely stifles a sob when he pushes her away. "I'm sorry," she whispers, and he has to turn around to hide his smile. Of course, she takes this as a sign of disgust on his part, and she rushes to his side, wiping back her tears with an angry hand.

"I'll do it," she says urgently, trying her mightiest to sound as competent as she thinks he wants her to be.

She closes her eyes when he reaches up to stroke her hair. "There's a good girl, Lorelei."

That night, he finds it more difficult than ever to make love to her. Even though he knows it's crucial (it's still too early to have her berated and pained for more than a few hours), it's nearly impossible for him to maintain the tender facade. He tries to keep his movements slow and gentle, whereas he wants to scratch and bite and bruise her, wants to hear her scream and beg for him to stop... but it's too early for that. Way too early. If he does that now, he'll only manage to exterminate all her love and replace it with pain and anger and hatred.

So he closes his eyes to the sight of the softly moaning Lorelei, and despite himself, conjures an image of ivory skin and flame-red hair (because he could only ever be genuinely delicate with _her_, no matter how much he hates himself for it). Later, as Lorelei lays half-asleep on his chest, he rests his head against the pillow and thinks that the dark-haired girl he met in that dark alley a year and a half ago has already given him her heart, and he has to content himself with that before she's ready to give him her soul as well.

* * *

She's bleeding on the sheets, beautiful crimson rivers running across white silk.

The sounds of skin against skin, the shuffle of fabric and her ragged breaths resonate in the dark bedroom, a wicked symphony of horrific passion. He towers above her, his fingers clasping the handle of his beloved blade, and he knows he should feel euphoric. Because it's all so beautiful, ruby red blood staining her skin and hair and the expensive fabric beneath her...

It's all wrong.

It should be perfect. But it isn't.

It should all be immensely pleasurable, however it's just plain _wrong_. Lorelei is sprawled on his bed, her hands bound tightly to the bedposts and her hair forming a dark halo around her sweaty face. Her back arches off the bed, her legs find their way around him and she looks up at him, eyes wide with something that is definitely _not_ fear.

And that's why nothing's right. A million emotions are reflected in those large dark eyes, and all of them are acceptable, he supposes – the more predominant ones are so raw and wild in their intensity; lust, anticipation, _reverence_.

It's beautiful, but at the same time it's hideous. Because there's that something missing – fear.

She's covered in blood, but not even that is anywhere near what it's supposed to look like. Her wounds are terribly, _laughably_ shallow, and she can't be in any real pain. It only hurts enough to stimulate her. He knows first hand that pain and pleasure are two sides of the same coin, separated only by a thin, nearly invisible line.

He learned early enough how to blur it, but he isn't doing it now.

All the cuts he's inflicted upon her are restrained, mere scratches against her olive skin. All the blood that veils her is the one his hands spread all over her body as he caressed her and she moaned (she should have been crying out in agony instead).

It all started as an experiment, but now that he's been proven right he can't find any pleasure in it. Not any more. He had wanted to test her, and by extension, test himself – just how much had he broken her simple mind? Just how much was his influence over her? Just how far would she stretch her own limits for his sake?

He'd gotten his answer in the first few minutes. Endlessly. Or, if he were to be more realistic, at least largely.

Lorelei's eyes are on his face, wild and expectant, and he shakes his head as he decides to give her what she wants at last. He's been teasing her for nearly half an hour now, and besides being inadequate, it's also getting tiresome.

She moans loudly when his lips find her own, his fingers still tight around the knife while his free hand goes straight between her legs. She wants to wrap her arms around his neck, that much is clear, but she's so tightly bound she can't even move them without letting out a shriek of pain. That doesn't stop her from throwing her head back in abandon while he watches idly, his mind only half-there as he muses on how much progress he has made with her over the last three years. But her grunts and groans are impossible to ignore, and he just hopes she'll finish soon, because the idea of letting himself cut her a little more deeply is hellishly tempting. Killing her now would not do though. Not when she's so perfectly _his_.

When she finally comes, he pulls back and stands abruptly, Lorelei still breathing hard and bleeding on the bed. He's quick to change himself back into his clothes, aware of her half-loving, half-bewildered gaze on him. She watches him underneath her thick lashes as he dresses, blinking rapidly, trying to even her breathing.

She only dares to speak when he's reached the bedroom door, his hand going for the metal handle.

"Where – where are you going?" She asks tentatively, sitting up as far as her bonds allow her. She's confused and worried, but still she's not truly afraid. _Stupid girl_. But how could she be, when he's not really hurting her?

"It's none of your business," he says coolly, and her expression becomes positively crestfallen. He is about to step out of the room when he hears her again, this time her voice small and timid, nearly inaudible.

"You're not going to leave me here like this, are you?" Her bottom lip is trembling, her eyes moments away from filling with tears, and he wants to push her back onto the bed and slap that look off her face. She's so prone to crying lately, especially when he leaves her instead of sleeping in the same bed after fucking her. His pretty, sentimental little doll.

Pathetic.

"Of course I am," he says simply, relishing the sudden look of dread in her eyes. _Finally_. "Don't you worry though, love, I won't be too late."

He can hear her wordless cries even when he reaches the bottom floor, calling out to him, begging him to come back, and he merely chuckles.

He then clears his mind of her, and ventures out into the heat of the summer night. After so much fallibility, he has to go and do something right.

* * *

She giggles like a schoolgirl, so different in his arms than the woman everyone else sees. His mouth is on her neck, kissing and sucking and biting as she mewls, exhilarated by their glorious kill.

Every now and then her eyes shift to the body lying next to them, but she can feel only excitement, laughing when he pushes her back onto the bed, right next to their victim's corpse. Her mind is slipping away, he can see it as clear as day, but she looks so alive when he takes her, even though he knows she's as good as dead inside.

He loves it when she's fun – not trying to seduce him or appease him, but giving in to the wild whims of her broken mind. Her laughter echoes in the dark room, the sound of someone surrendering themselves to sweet, total oblivion.

But she'll be back to her stupid, simpering self again the next time he'll kiss her, so utterly convinced that he cares for her and so confident in her own ability to stand her ground through his madness, that she'll ruin whatever moment they will be having with her idiotic remarks and pretty little smiles.

She's not strong, and he hates it, because it means that he has failed to mold her into the perfect woman he'd wanted her to be. She appears so unawed and winsome to the world, sometimes even he forgets that she's really nothing but a broken doll.

There are times when he wonders why on earth he still keeps her.

Maybe it's because he so loves to play with her.

* * *

She tries so hard to prove to him that she is strong, it's almost touching. Perhaps it would be, if it weren't so utterly pathetic to watch.

Because she's doing it in all the wrong ways, saying things when she shouldn't, challenging him whereas she knows only someone with a death wish would do so. It only makes her look stupid and weak and it's infuriating, for he _knows_ his Lorelei could be a wicked thing if only she knew how.

One day he decides he's had enough of her fruitless efforts. He decides to teach her, to truly show her how to be the fierce woman she so desperately wants to be for his sake.

She grins expectantly when he tells her that, and he shakes his head in disdain when she asks him if he'll teach her how to use a weapon and physically defend herself. She's got it all wrong again.

"Being able to handle a gun doesn't make you strong," he says. "It's all about what's in your mind." _Or whatever's left of it_.

He tries for days, weeks, but she is so tediously stubborn and unreceptive, so sure that she is already strong that he wonders whether he should just break her completely and start all over again. But that would drag them back five years, and he has no intention to repeat everything.

So he merely sighs to himself as he watches her practice with her new handgun, firing at the moving targets with a gleeful expression on her face. He can't help but feel disappointed. He could not accomplish what he had set out to do, but it is her fault, definitely not his. What else is he supposed to do? His Lorelei will never be anything more than a pretty, self-assured doll, relatively useful now that she's learned how to bat her eyelashes, fire a gun and bring down men twice her size.

_We have finally reached the end of our journey_, he muses as she turns her eyes to him and shouts something from across his backyard. He smiles and nods his head, not having heard what she's said, but apparently that's all she wanted from him.

It's a pity, really, that she can't be more than what she is now. But then again, she is at least a useful tool. Her mind is so gone and her heart so completely his that she will never question anything he asks of her. He supposes it's a good thing she has at least learned how to stand up for herself when confronted with others, because he wouldn't be able to use her if she hadn't.

Of course, he has only himself to thank for that.

* * *

Her eyes go round and big with excitement when he announces they'll be going to Vegas for a few weeks. She obviously thinks they're going for vacation together, and he doesn't bother to correct her.

But when they finally reach their destination and he tells her what she'll have to do for him, she looks at him hesitantly and asks him why. For the first time he actually takes the time to explain, partly because the person he wants her to seduce isn't just another ordinary man he wants to turn into a disciple. She nods with understanding when he's finished, aware of the importance of her mission.

He sends her off, knowing full well that Patrick Jane is far too clever to be fooled by someone like his little doll. That's why he emphasizes that she must reveal his true intentions to Patrick and not try to outsmart him – at least she can do _that_.

That night, as he sits in darkness and silence, he realizes that he _did_ create a beautiful enchantress after all, a perfect Lorelei whose mission will only be undermined by her target's prodigious intellect. Had she been tasked with charming any other man, he has no doubt she would succeed.

It's a pity she's not her own person anymore. But it's alright, because she's his instead, and maybe that's even better.

* * *

She's crumpled at his feet, tears streaming down her cheeks as she looks up at him with so much pain and guilt, he can't help but remember the broken, fragile little thing she had been until he'd decided to fix her.

Patrick Jane saw through the nearly invisible cracks of her perfect porcelain facade, and managed to tear them open, pulled at the seams and reminded her of the weakness and emptiness she used to feel when he had first taken her under his wing.

He'd been a fool to think that her transformation would last. He'd been a fool to think that his cunning foe wouldn't see how frail and ruptured she really is.

He has failed in creating perfection, and he has nothing more left to do than break her completely, now that she's no longer pretending to be useful.

He suddenly _wants_ her to be angry, wants her to be furious and to hear her scream hateful words at him, because he can't bear the thought that something of his own making is so terribly weak.

He's the one who's shouting when he gets no response from her. Her silent sobs are enough to make him snap, the sounds she's making and her ugly tears are infuriating.

She thought she had turned against him, but she'd only managed to hurt herself in the process. And that's what he hates the most, that she doesn't have enough heart left to truly desert him if she wants to. He hates it, because it means he's failed.

He would be content if it had been his intention to strip her of any strength she might have once had, and have her be an empty shell and nothing more. But that isn't what he'd wanted. He'd wanted her to be his, his but _strong_.

She's ruptured and empty, and as he watches her cry, his lip curling in digust, he doesn't know that she's already forming plans of bringing down her wicked God's temple in her not entirely gone mind.

* * *

He's surprised when he finds out about everything she's done while she was away from him. He's shocked that her not-quite insanity and weakness have kept him blind to her strength for so long.

He even hesitates as he looms above her battered form, the knife ready in his hand. She looks at him with defiance, and the woman lying underneath him no longer resembles the broken doll of the past.

He mentally screams when he realizes that she found strength without him. He was the one who was supposed to perfect her, yet it was someone else who helped her find out who she is. She remained a weak little girl with him, and became a fearless woman without him.

Strong and unflinching, even in her final moments.

And she did it on her own.

Rage still clouds his mind, even after he's walked away from her dead body. She did it on her own.

**FIN**


End file.
